


Presence in Absence

by notavodkashot



Series: Old Archive [16]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Neither did Squalo for that matter, Revenge Sex, Time Shenanigans, Unreliable Narrator, Xanxus is a monster beyond compare, Xanxus' kindness is the greatest horror in the world, Yamamoto didn't know any better, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 11:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: When all is said and done, Xanxus cannot help but avenge Squalo's death.





	Presence in Absence

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as Incompleteness in Absence, assuming that story took place in the original time line, while this one is meant to follow the events of the TYL time line. You don't need to read that story to follow this one, though it helps to keep track of which timeline the characters belong to. This is _not_ , under any definition of the word, a happy story.

**Presence in Absence.**

  
  
  
  
Squalo was laughing, when he died.  
  
The sound drilled itself into Yamamoto's mind, deep into it, somewhere he'd never be able to forget it. He was propped against a pile of debris, covered by his own hair -  _always the hair_ , Yamamoto thought a touch hysterically,  _he'd **die**  to protect his hair_ - and he was bleeding so much, because half of him wasn't there at all. But he was laughing, gasping between ragged breaths and seemingly not caring about dying.  
  
"Squalo!" Yamamoto cried out, rushing through the remains of the base and ignoring the gore and the blood splattered everywhere -  _stop looking at it, stop looking at it, **stop**  -_ instead approaching the fallen swordsman warily, afraid of further hurting him. "You..."  _won't be alright. Won't. **Won't**. Why won't you be alright? You _ promised  _you'd be alright._  Yamamoto swallowed hard, grip lax around his sword. "You don't look so good."  
  
Squalo snorted, loud enough he made himself cough violently, but he merely spat the blood to the side and looked at Yamamoto with clearest eyes the boy had ever seen.  
  
"Fucking screwed up," Squalo grinned, licking blood off his teeth, "of course I look like shit." Yamamoto started to panic when he closed his eyes. "For shame, I'd have liked it if you'd asked me again." Squalo chuckled under his breath, lips curved into a vague smile and voice softening to that same bewildering tone he'd use, sometimes, when they sat in front of the fire after a long day training for the battle Yamamoto had lost anyway. Yamamoto knew, somehow, that Squalo was not talking about  _him_ , but of the future self he held in such a high esteem, despite the constant river of profanity he flung at his memory every now and then. "I'd have said yes this time."  
  
Yamamoto understood, in that moment, that Squalo was going to die. Even as he rasped some chuckles, full of that acrid sense of humor that Yamamoto found utterly fascinating. Even if he'd promised to tell him why he send the videos - the  _real_  why - once the war was over, before Yamamoto was sent home. Even if he'd ruffled his hair the night before the battle and said he wasn't half bad so they'd probably be alright.  
  
_He's going to die_ , Yamamoto thought from behind a growing distance with the feelings slowly sinking in his gut,  _because I wasn't good enough._  
  
And then Yamamoto Takeshi experienced, for the first time in his life, that which Squalo had been trying to explain for the last ten days.  
  
Yamamoto Takeshi raged, and he raged in _blue._  
  
It was the same as his flame, bright, consuming, powerful like fire, but it was blue and serene, like the soft drum of rain in late summer. And it flared from within, eating away anything in its way and leaving Yamamoto alone with the depth of his mind and his own power, and his duty. It started out as the fierce desire for revenge, but the rage was blue, and it cleansed and galvanized it into duty. He had a duty, a job to do. And he left behind Squalo's corpse, broken and barely there anymore, and stalked away to find his friends and his boss, and the enemy he had to destroy.  
  
And he would destroy them, he  _would_ ; but it wasn't some senseless romanticism born out of resentment and revenge. It was just that they were the enemy, the reason why he was here and why Squalo had died. They were his duty, and instead of mourning the death of his mentor, he gave himself to the duty he'd inherited from him.  
  
In the end, though, in the end it was just as Squalo had told him, as they laid next to the fire and let the warmth dry their clothes as they watched the stars.  _Glory is not for_ us _,_  Squalo had said, emphasizing that  _us_  in a way that had made Yamamoto feel like he was truly the older man's equal,  _glory is for the Sky. The Rain only aspires to Pride. There's no glory in gutting a man and smearing your face with his innards and his blood. There's no glory in walking through shit and scum. Glory is for_ them _, for the Sky that rules over us. For the ones that guide us. So we take Pride on what we do, because it's something no one else can do. Anyone can kill, but_ we _kill and stay_ whole _. So be proud of what you are, and leave the glory to those who deserve it._  
  
Tsuna claimed the glory of defeating Millefiore, of proving himself once more as the wide and encompassing Sky that held them together, and Yamamoto tried to feel proud of his own accomplishments, that he was whole and that he hadn't broken. That he truly was the Rain Squalo had worked so hard to make him into.  
  
Yamamoto celebrated victory with his friends, and the blue rage inside him was strong enough that none of them realized each laugh had been meant to be a sob.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
I.  
  
_Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,  
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;  
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,  
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;  
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,  
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.  
  
_ ~ " _Epitaph on a Tyrant_ ", by W. H. Auden.  
  
  
  
Xanxus stared at the ceiling of the borrowed room with sheer distaste. It was hardly a  _closet_ , when compared to the splendor of his own room, in the manor. Barely enough space for a bed, a dresser and a table with a chair. And not even a window, given how it was located in the lowest levels of the brat's underground base - or what had survived of it. Pedestrian, really, and had Squalo been around, he would have probably done something to ensure better accommodations, better suited for him.  
  
Unfortunately, Squalo had had to be a perennial pain in the ass and he'd gone and managed to get himself  _killed_.  
  
But Xanxus didn't care, because if Squalo had died was only because he'd been  _weak_ , and Xanxus had no use for weak things. The moron and his wretchedly accusing hair were gone, and Xanxus would never have to deal with him or his stupidly loud tantrums ever again. The way he saw it, he was  _free_  now, from a cage Squalo had spent twenty years tenderly wrapping around him. Freedom had always pleased him, so Xanxus told himself that it pleased him to be free of Squalo's influence, and that its loss meant nothing to him, in the great scale of things. Of course, he told himself this not out of some misplaced sentimentalism or, god forbid, deluded attachment to the piece of trash that had faithfully nagged at his heels for so long. No, it was simply because Xanxus prided himself -  _now_  - in being a rational man, and rationality dictated that he needed to overcome the sheer wrath boiling under his skin at the thought of someone touching what was  _his_. Squalo's life had been his, just as every bit of Squalo had always been - sleazy, cunning, sweet-talking Japanese baseball players non-withstanding - and it infuriated him beyond words to know someone had  _taken_  that away from him.  
  
All which Xanxus had ever cherished had been taken away from him at some point, and it was so hard to control the pulse of anger behind his eyelids, making his heart speed up and his knuckles crack.  
  
It didn't mean he had  _cherished_  Squalo, though, even if he could use the stupid shit being around about then, to do that weird thing with his thumbs pressing against Xanxus' eyelids that for some reason instantly made his heartbeat slow down and soothed the wildest edges of his rage. It simply meant that he was touchy when someone tried to take anything from him, be it his estate, his whiskey or his irascible, loud, obnoxious asshole of a right hand man. Truly, after so many years of stewing, Xanxus knew it didn't matter  _what_  was taken from him, it simply mattered the action. The intent. They dared to try because they thought him weak, but he was  _not_ , and his pride urged him to show them so. And he had, in the end, he'd let his flame burn until it felt like he could burn the whole world to ashes if so he wanted, and he handled his own fury like the finest weapon ever made.  
  
And it would be over soon, too. As soon as tomorrow, once the time-displaced brats were sent back to where they belonged and the  _real_  ones came back. Xanxus was looking forward to a long talk with the Sawada Tsunayoshi he'd seen grow up and with whom he'd forged a strange, fragile alliance that only Squalo had ever understood. He looked forward to remind him, from now until death finally deigned to remove the damnable man of the face of earth, of this failure. Of all that his weak will and well intentioned  _bullshit_  had caused. If Sawada Tsunayoshi had been as strong as he should have been, or rather, if he'd  _remained_  as strong as he'd been, when he bested Xanxus in his own game, ten years ago, then none of this would have happened. This silly war should have been snipped when it was little more than a quarrel between a new rising family and one of the oldest of the world. Xanxus had told him so, when the Gesso had started to move, but Sawada Tsunayoshi had had the  _nerve_  to ask for his advice and then ignore it, and now look how it all had ended.  
  
Yes, Xanxus reasoned with the cold, sadistic intent that made his enemies quiver when they realized they had earned his wrath, he  _would_ remember Squalo's death. If -  _for_  - nothing else, for the pleasure of hanging it over Sawada's head until the day he died. It was a debt that he knew could not be repaid, and the loss of his right hand man, though it amounted to nothing in Xanxus' practical view of the world - it  _didn't_ , because Squalo was dead, like the worthless trash Xanxus had always said he was - it would be enough to manipulate Sawada's sickeningly emotional heart. He had already proved to be far too shortsighted to rule, and the fact Xanxus  _had_  seen the danger coiling around the Family long before their precious Tenth had, only cemented the fact.  
  
There would be war, once Sawada Tsunayoshi came back and tried to reclaim his place in the Family, but Xanxus knew it would not be long; the Family would side with him, would bow down to his strength and his power, and then things would finally,  _finally_  be as they should have always been.  
  
He wondered, for a moment, what it would have been like to see Squalo finally free of his vow. What the stupid fool would do, once Xanxus raised to power and his life of servitude held no meaning anymore.  _Probably stay, anyway._  Squalo had been so stupidly loyal, the most loyal man Xanxus had ever met, in fact. The only one he'd ever found it in himself to trust, even if it was just a little, because he  _knew_  that he was clear-eyed enough to not let his own devotion be twisted against him, like Levi. Or whimsical enough to be dangerous, like Lussuria. Or too far gone to be reliable, like Belphegor.  _Or maybe he would choose to stay... but with_ him _, once his vow was fulfilled. He vowed to help you raise to the top, but he never vowed to_ stay _after he was done, did he?_  
  
Xanxus sat up on the bed with a growl as soon as the thought took form, and ran a hand through his hair to try and control the spike of temper suddenly gnawing restlessly at his spine. He pressed his own thumbs to his eyes, trying to replicate the effect Squalo's hands had always had on him, but it was was useless as it'd been, the very first time he'd tried, years and years ago. He'd been seconds from entering a meeting with ambassadors from the Main Vongola House, he remembered clearly, and he had been burning with the need to  _kill_. And then Squalo, in that... that... that utterly  _infuriating_  Squalo way of his, had gone over and placed his thumbs over his eyes, pressing gently enough and then releasing him with a scowl, ranting about his poor self-control and his stupid need to fuck shit up. Somehow, Xanxus' heart had stopped beating too fast and his eyes could see clearly, the clouds of emotion parted as if by magic by Squalo's touch. Xanxus had tried to do the same thing for himself, because it offended his paranoia to have someone touching his eyes - such a vulnerable place, so easy to gouge them out if he wasn't careful - and because it was just frankly embarrassing to even  _admit_  he needed someone from the outside to control himself. But just like it had been useless back then, it was useless now, and Xanxus absently wished he'd asked Squalo about that mystifying gift of his.  
  
It didn't matter, though, because Squalo was gone and Xanxus didn't  _need_  him.  
  
Xanxus turned to the small table where the glasses, the ice and the bottles were, glinting with flecks of gold under the sickly light from the ceiling lamp. It was poor whiskey, too, the one Levi had chosen. It was expensive of course, but it wasn't the  _right_  type of whiskey for the mood he was nursing at the moment. Squalo had always known what sort of tang his drinks needed, depending on his mood, and he'd always served them like Xanxus liked them. And Squalo would have never been presumptuous enough to bring a second glass, when he served him, as if to invite himself to drink with him. Squalo had always known his place in Xanxus' world, and he was obsessive about keeping to it and ensuring the rest of Xanxus' world continued to spin and work as it should. Levi was eager to take his place, Xanxus knew, but Levi knew nothing about being Xanxus' right hand man. He didn't know how Xanxus liked his meals or his drinks, how to sort his paperwork and how to coax him into a round of abuse to let out some steam when he needed it. Levi couldn't know that, because all that had always been  _Squalo_ 's job, and as Xanxus served himself a glass, he wondered absently if anyone, ever, would come to understand that well enough to usurp the trash's place in his life.  
  
Xanxus tilted back the glass forcefully, feeling the amber liquid burn on the way down, when he realized he was making Squalo sound  _irreplaceable_.  
  
He was not.  
  
He was  _not_.  
  
Because if he was - and he  _wasn't_  - then that would mean there would be a hole in Xanxus' world. A piece of it that would always be missing. It would mean that even at thirty-fucking-four years old, Xanxus still hadn't learned how to protect what was  _his_. That he had, somehow,  _failed_  himself again. He wasn't a child anymore. Or a teenager. He'd been too young, when they took his mother away from him. And too reckless, when he lost leadership of Vongola to a brat that had ended up showing his true ineptitude in the end, because he'd lost his patience and attacked the old man before it was time. He was  _old_  now, though. Wiser. Stronger. He had learned from his mistakes and kept the memory of sour defeat close to his heart, for the sake of ensuring he'd never have to confront it outside of a memory ever again. He'd made his plans and found a temporary place in the world, while he schemed and waited for his schemes to fructify.  
  
He had done what he had to, and most emphatically, Squalo's death was  _not_  his fault and he did  _not_  care one fucking damn about it.  
  
Fortunately for him, before his mind and his new found viciously self-destroying logic could corner him into accepting any such thing, there was a knock on his door. Xanxus narrowed his eyes and sprawled back on the bed, empty whiskey glass in his hand.  
  
"Enter," Xanxus snapped, and then felt his eyes  _gleam_  when the boy did as told.  
  
There it was, right in front of him, he thought callously, the living proof that Squalo's death - and any annoying repercussions thereof - were _not_  his fault.  
  
Xanxus smiled, and it was not a pretty smile by any means.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto did not know why he was there.  
  
He should be in bed, in the room he shared with Gokudera, recovering from the final battle and resting before the trip home, in the morning. Yamamoto knew this, yet he could not sleep. He'd eaten dinner with everyone, which had been a much more subdued affair than the raucous celebrations earlier in the day, as if the euphoria had drained away and left them bare, able to see what Yamamoto had been seeing since he watched the last of Squalo's life escape his body with a sigh. They had fought a war. It had not been the inner family conflict that had come with the Varia. It had been  _war_. And people had died and suffered, and for as long as they lived, they would  _remember_ , because it had been war, and no one could forget about it. They couldn't just shrug it off with a joke or make a party big enough to bring back the dead. Sure, in  _their_  time, the war would not happen. In  _their_  time, everyone was safe and sound, and they would live peacefully because they had succeeded and Byakuran was no more.  
  
But at the heart of it remained the knowledge, of what they'd done and seen and said, and Yamamoto had sat through dinner, watching his friends mourn through their celebrations, trying to convince themselves that it would be alright in the end.  
  
Yamamoto thought of himself, his older self, and of what he'd lost. His family, with his father's murder, and what had always felt like the only person in the whole world that truly  _understood_  him, with Squalo's last sacrifice. What did his future self have, to feel things would be alright in the end?  
  
_The Rain only aspires to Pride_.  
  
Yamamoto knew what pride felt like, it burned a crisp blue and eased his mind when he had to do what he didn't want to do. He'd tasted it, and it was still raging inside him, so hard he sometimes feared it'd simply start oozing out his pores. Pride was a cold, empty thing to have, when everything else seemed gone forever. Pride was not something he wished upon his future self, or anyone for that matter. In that sense, he was proud of shouldering the burden, willing if it meant sparing someone else.  
  
Yamamoto still didn't know what he was doing there.  
  
Xanxus' room was claustrophobic, to put it mildly. It seemed almost like a cell, containing a dangerous criminal, or a powerful beast. Yamamoto tried not to stare with prying eyes, as that would be most assuredly impolite, but he couldn't help but notice the leather coat fallen on the bed, the missing tie, the whiskey bottles or the empty glass in Xanxus' hand. It was such a strange picture, and for a moment he wanted to turn on his heel and run away. He wanted to hide in his bed and listen to Gokudera breathe and pretend he could really forget about Squalo's death and all the horrible, horrible things that had happened since he landed in the future.  
  
But he didn't, because it was not his own pride he had to honor right then and there, and somehow, he just  _knew_  this was the right thing to do.  
  
"I'm-"  
  
"What," Xanxus asked slowly, not even bothering to stand up, and yet somehow managing to fill the room with a hostile, barely restrained air that made Yamamoto's skin  _crawl_ , "the  **fuck**  do you think you're doing here?"  
  
Yamamoto took a moment to answer, feeling small against the brunt of Xanxus' presence. He wondered, for a second, if that was the sort of thing that had made Squalo throw away everything and follow Xanxus blindly. It was certainly imposing, and even terrifying, from up close. Yamamoto had never been this close to Xanxus, and maybe that was why he'd never  _noticed_  the sheer will that seemed to stretch behind the violent aura the man projected. Maybe it was just that he'd seen Squalo  _die_  and somehow that made him want to see the world in the same way his mentor had. Never the less, Xanxus had asked him a question, and Yamamoto felt compelled to answer, and answer with the truth.  
  
"I don't know," he said softly, almost meekly, and tried, at the same time, to find his own damn spine and put some weight behind his words.  
  
Squalo had never liked submissive, cowering people, and Yamamoto was sure Xanxus didn't like them, either. He wasn't wrong.  
  
"Of course you don't," Xanxus hissed, his upper lip twitching up in a snarl, "you fucking worthless waste of  _space_ , what the fuck would a shitty moron like you know? You know  _nothing_."  
  
Xanxus hadn't raised his voice, but Yamamoto almost wished he would.  _Squalo would_ , he thought, far away from the hissing rant Xanxus threw at him, enumerating each and every flaw and mistake,  _he'd yell and swear and flail a bit, and it'd be so hard to keep a straight face and not_ laugh _because he'd look so funny._  Everything had been funny, then, before Squalo died. Things had been serious, and they had been at war, but things were funny because they would be alright in the end. Because they trained to be strong, and if he hadn't been so damn  _stupid_  all the time, he would have done things right.  
  
As Xanxus continued to speak, Yamamoto sank deeper into his mind. It was worse, he thought, that he had seen Squalo die, but he hadn't seen him  _fight_. He knew his mentor would not have gone down without a spectacular fight, but all Yamamoto had found had been an agonizing, broken body and a story in those wounds, that he could not retell. And now every time he closed his eyes he  _saw_ , but not what had happened, but what he thought had happened, and he was quickly realizing he had an obscenely fertile imagination.  
  
"Brat," Xanxus snapped, raising his voice enough to startle the boy into  _looking_  at him.  
  
He'd been ignoring him, he could tell, and that annoyed Xanxus, but he had a flash of inspiration. This boy, this utterly worthless, stupid  _boy_  would grow up one day. And he'd be a fucking nuisance that would take  _his_  Squalo's mind off the right track. Xanxus didn't care that Squalo was dead, but he cared very much, that he could  _prevent_  him to be taken away from him, even if that him wasn't himself. The time line would split again, once the brats went back to their own time. Then it would solidify and set them apart, and then Xanxus' world would not change, but  _theirs_  would. And in  _their_  world, there was a Xanxus with a Squalo that remained as loyal to him as he should have always been. One who hadn't stumbled yet.  
  
Xanxus couldn't take Squalo back, couldn't make him come back to life; he'd ensure, instead, that this damnable boy never took him away again.  
  
Yamamoto focused his eyes on Xanxus again, and tried to silence the restless thoughts flying about his head. He was not afraid of the man, as much as he recognized his strength. And he was not insulted or belittled by his words. What got to Yamamoto was the guilt inside, that hurt and ate through him, and that echoed and relished in Xanxus' words. Yamamoto looked at him and wished with all his heart that he knew what he was supposed to do or say, to make things okay. And the greatest mistake, that he would mourn once he realized it, years in the future, was that when he looked at Xanxus, he let him  _see_. That instead of hiding behind his smile, he let his grief and his doubt and his  _weakness_  on display, naively wishing to find sympathy in who he thought would mourn his loss the same.  
  
"Pour me another glass, trash," Xanxus said softly, voice serpentine enough Yamamoto heard in it what he  _wanted_  to hear, not so much as what was really there, "and pour one for yourself, while you're at it."  
  
Yamamoto ducked his head and obeyed, because, in the end, what else could have he done?  
  
  
  
  
  
The boy was easy prey.  
  
In different circumstances, that would have annoyed Xanxus a great deal. He hated the thought that his victory would be tainted by having such a weak resistance, but he had hardened his resolve around the third glass Yamamoto drank, and decided he was  _due_  this. He had been wronged, and he would collect payment. That was how the mafia worked, how things were done.  
  
"I like them," Yamamoto said all of a sudden, nuzzling against the feathers hanging down Xanxus' left shoulder. "They suit you."  
  
He was well and truly drunk, so far gone he didn't filter anything he said. He'd laughed while he cried, and cried even as he laughed, and by the sixth glass he'd broken down into incoherent ramblings that Xanxus cared not one bit about. But he'd sought out his touch, and he had not seen the feral gleam in Xanxus' eyes as he let him sit on the bed, next to him. Now Yamamoto was practically sitting on his lap, one hand perched on Xanxus' thigh, awkwardly holding up his weight. He was torpid and open and so deliciously  _vulnerable_ , that Xanxus felt himself hate him twice as much in the space of each heartbeat.  
  
"Do you?" Xanxus purred, using a hand to tilt that face up and  _look_  into those wide, cloudy eyes that reflected the malleable mind behind them. A mind he could influence anyway he wanted. "I think so too."  
  
Yamamoto smiled blindingly, soaking up the words Xanxus chose carefully. He'd drunk his share of the empty bottle on the table, but certainly not even close to half as much as he  _could_. He had a very, very definite idea of what he wanted to do, he could not afford to get too drunk and  _ruin_  things. He wanted to break the kid, shatter him so thoroughly he'd never be a threat to him again. But he wanted him to live. He wanted him to go home, rebuilt into what Xanxus wanted. He wanted  _revenge_.  
  
This ridiculous idiot had  _taken_  something from him, something he could never take back or replace properly.  
  
Sure, he didn't care Squalo was dead - he  _didn't_ , goddamnit - and he could train and find a proper replacement to fill in Squalo's duties. But he shouldn't  _have_  to. Squalo shouldn't have died and Xanxus shouldn't have to go through the tedious process of replacing him. Squalo had been a damn fine tool and weapon, and he had fit in Xanxus' life properly. And if Yamamoto - this or the other one, it hardly mattered to him anymore - had kept himself away, Squalo would have never left Xanxus' side without orders to. He would have  _stayed_ , and he would have lived as he should have.   
  
It wasn't  _fair_ , but life hardly ever was.  
  
Fortunately, Xanxus was well versed in the unfairness of the world, and he knew well that if he wanted any measure of justice, he had to get it himself. He would not kill the boy nor would he cripple his ability to serve his family. He'd just make fucking  _sure_  he'd never do what his older self had, and that he kept his goddamn nose out of his and his men's business.  
  
"I think," Yamamoto slurred quietly, nuzzling up until his nose touched the skin of Xanxus' throat, "I think I know why Squalo liked you so much."  
  
Xanxus' lips twitched into a dangerous grin for a moment, as the opening he'd been waiting for finally appeared before him. Yamamoto didn't notice, sunken deep in the haze of alcohol and guilt and euphoria that made it hard to concentrate on anything for more than five seconds. He raised a hand to fiddle with the bright red feathers Xanxus wore, and thought he understood why he'd never been  _afraid_  of the man before. Intimidated, yes, and even awed, in the deepest parts of his mind, but never truly afraid. And surely Xanxus understood Yamamoto's loss, too, in a way Gokudera or Tsuna or the others wouldn't. They had never liked Squalo, though obviously they had never really wanted him  _dead_. They just didn't understand him the way Yamamoto did, and when they had talked to Yamamoto after the final battle was over and they realized what had happened, they had sounded... awkward.  _Insincere_ , a little voice in Yamamoto's brain pointed out disdainfully,  _because they didn't really_ care _about him. He's just another name and a face, really deep down they don't_ care _._  Yamamoto didn't like to listen to that voice, and he sank deeper against Xanxus' unnaturally warm body, as if the warmth could chase the voice away.  
  
Xanxus would understand, though, right? Xanxus had known Squalo for decades now, and surely he mourned his loss just as much, if not more, than Yamamoto did. Xanxus was safe, he had to be. Because if he wasn't, well, if he wasn't Yamamoto wasn't sure he could face that sort of loneliness. His father wasn't here, and his friends didn't understand, and he knew he had to honor his Pride and  _not_  break, but he desperately wanted someone who'd understand. Who'd look at him like Squalo did, some times, and talked to him as if he could read his mind, and could see under his smile and hit him upside the head and tell him he was being stupid. Xanxus wasn't Squalo, but he'd  _known_  him, and that was a bond Yamamoto needed, since he realized he had no one else to share his feelings and their burden with.  
  
"He liked you, too," Xanxus said, carefully keeping any trace of disdain out of his voice, though it hardly mattered when Yamamoto was so focused on what he wanted to hear. Xanxus would rather not risk anything. "I know he did."  
  
It was true, of course, and it  _annoyed_  him to know it was true, but he could use an annoying truth to further his own web, as he slowly wrapped the boy around his will. It had taken Xanxus  _years_  to understand what his will could do, the real power he had, beyond the flashy signs, like a title or his flames of wrath. His power, his strength, lay on his will, and the ripples it created in the world around him. He exuded Sky flames from his very skin, and their effect was subtle, but potent. He hadn't fully realized it until the flames and the rings became common in their world, but it had been happening since he first learned to tame his flame, probably even before that, since he was born. Weaker wills broke before his, shattered into dust before the might of his, and the stronger ones, the ones that couldn't be broken, bent to harmonize with his. The only reason Xanxus had accepted that ridiculous truce and alliance with Sawada Tsunayoshi was because despite it all, his will could rival Xanxus'. It would neither break nor bend, so they instead danced around each other, measuring out and playing a complicated game of chess that was both exciting and boring at once.  
  
Yamamoto Takeshi's will had already bent to serve his boss, and Xanxus had known so since the first time the brat had come to his home, to study under Squalo's tutelage the ways of the Rain. Xanxus had known he could not bend or break the man away from Sawada, anymore than Sawada could bend or break Squalo into his service. But  _this_  boy was already bending too much, too close to breaking, and Xanxus could use that, for the sake of his own revenge. He was vulnerable enough that Xanxus could twist him into bending to  _his_  will, and deprive Sawada of his Rain guardian, as Sawada's foolishness had eventually deprived him of his. He could break him, too, smash him to pieces that no one would be able to put together again. But Xanxus didn't want any of those things. He wanted something far more lasting, something far more  _painful_.  
  
He looked at the boy's eyes, wide after such bold declaration, and concentrated his will to push him over the abyss he knew he was standing at the edge of. He saw the murky confusion and the vulnerable hope, and Xanxus allowed his face to twist into the cruelest smile he could muster.  
  
He was not disappointed when, swayed by the sky flames thick in the air, the alcohol in his veins and the desolation swirling behind his eyes, Yamamoto reached out and pressed his lips against that smile, clutching him like a lifeline. It was a terrible kiss, Xanxus noted with disdain, even as he opened his mouth to coax the brat further. It was sloppy and unrefined, full of wordless desperation and an overwhelming  _need_  for comfort. He had not been wrong, then, in his method; this would eventually cause far more damage than he could have even hoped for, and yet not enough to ruin his plan.  
  
Xanxus wrapped his arms around Yamamoto's waist, pulling him until he was sitting on his lap, and took control of the kiss. He was careful not to bite, though. He wanted to dominate, and he would, but he needed the brat to find the dominance  _reassuring_. He would make sure the boy enjoyed himself, found himself wanting  _more_ , because that would only make the morning all the more bitter. And so he coiled the urge he felt, to bit down hard until he tore his lip, and made his hands hold kindly, instead of bruising, and above all, resisted the urge to simply call forth his flame and burn him until not a speck of him remained.  
  
"Please," Yamamoto pleaded softly, between gasping breaths, resting his cheek against a scarred one, and said nothing else because he didn't know what else to say.  
  
Xanxus did.  
  
"He  _loved_  you," he purred the words, dragging out the syllables as if he had melting chocolate on his tongue, and tilted his head down to kiss the corner of a jaw not nearly as sharp as he knew it would eventually be. "He didn't love  _me_."  
  
Xanxus waited for a reply to that, careful not to leave any lasting mark on the skin under his lips. Then Yamamoto whimpered, fingers clutching desperately at his back, and Xanxus could almost hear his trap triumphantly snapping shut around him.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamamoto laid back on the bed, staring up at Xanxus through hazy eyes.  
  
Xanxus had stripped him with ease, and he'd let him, because it felt  _right_. The swirling thoughts in his mind were exacerbated by the alcohol, and he realized that in a distant corner of his brain, but it did not change the fact that once his purpose had been removed, once they'd  _won_ , his mind had been a riot. He was used to dealing with things bigger than himself. He was used to pulling away and smiling at the mess around him, because he was confident things would eventually be alright. The pillar of his world, of his  _sanity_ , was that everything had a solution. Everything but death could be mended and patched up, and so he could smile at his friends and reassure them, because they were alive and things would be alright in the end. Except death. And his pillar had taken a devastating blow with Squalo's death, because it was something he couldn't  _fix_. Even when he went back to his own time, where he knew Squalo was alive and well and where the Millefiore would not flourish, because Byakuran was  _gone_ , he couldn't just ignore the fact that Squalo had  _died_. In this world, people had died and suffered and were  _not_  going to be alright in the end. Their own world would be safe, but what would happen to this? Would it flicker out of existence once they were gone? Yamamoto didn't think so, but when he'd tried to talk with Gokudera about it, he'd told him to stop thinking in circles and enjoy the fact they had  _won._  Gokudera thought he was still in shock, still rattled from the battle and the sacrifices they had made.  
  
Yamamoto had felt the alien, unkind urge to snap at his friend that he  _was_ , because  _he_  had been the one to sacrifice the most, in this world. He'd lost his father and Squalo, while Gokudera's loss of Tsuna had been all a rouse. Neither Yamamoto's father nor Squalo would raise from the dead and be back, because they were both  _gone_. Forever. None of the others had lost anything they could not recover, and Yamamoto felt and hated the spark of resentment the insidious thought brought with it.   
  
The heart of the matter was that the whole situation was  _unfair_ , in a complex way that could not be split into right or wrong anymore. And Yamamoto had been brought up with fairness and righteousness in mind. He'd learned that he should not stand for injustice, big or small, that if he was strong, he had to protect the weak. And that if he was weak, he had to learn to be strong. It was easy following Tsuna, because Tsuna was fair and he was... well, he was  _good_. His entanglement with the mafia was dangerous, yes, but not necessarily bad. Things could be dangerous, but as long as they did the right thing and were just and fair, then it would all sort itself out in the end. And thus far, and up to the point Squalo died, Yamamoto had believed that. Now he wasn't so sure anymore. He was hurt, and he was  _angry_ , and now that his Pride didn't have a clear objective anymore, a purpose he had to accomplish, like defeating the funeral wreaths and making sure Byakuran didn't succeed, now he felt lost. His sense of justice had failed him, the fairness had not come, and he had nothing he could do.  
  
And then Xanxus was there, touching him lightly and making his body feel good even if his mind was in disarray. Looking at him through dark, red eyes that seem to really  _look_  at him, looming above him in a way fitting to someone stronger than him. He understood, of course, what Yamamoto felt. And if this was what would make him feel better, why should he deny it? It felt good, it relieved some of the pressure behind his eyelids that he refused to let become any more tears. It was warm and it wrapped around him, soothing. Yamamoto was tired of feeling lost, of being the strong one that held himself together. Well, he had before him someone  _stronger_ , would it be so bad to let himself be weak just this once?  
  
Xanxus slid a palm down the inside of his thigh, slowly, and Yamamoto shivered, moaning under his breath. Xanxus touched him slowly, purposely, studying him and his reactions quietly. Part of Yamamoto wished his limbs didn't feel so heavy and his fingers so clumsy, so he could return the attention; Xanxus was still wearing as many clothes as he had, when Yamamoto came into the room. But it felt good, and each touch sent a pleasant warmth slithering down his spine, to curl in his groin. And Xanxus didn't seem to mind having full control of the situation; Yamamoto knew he wouldn't even know what to do to balance things. It  _seemed_  unfair, but it wasn't, because Xanxus wasn't mad at him, wasn't yelling and throwing him out with a snarl.   
  
Instead he wrapped his hand around Yamamoto's erection and studied him some more as pleasure bloomed behind his eyelids and his mouth went dry in the space of a heartbeat. The caress was intent, but coaxing instead of demanding, and Yamamoto felt the world and his thoughts blur further underneath the sweet pleasure that assaulted his senses. He writhed, sinking away from any part of his mind that would point out, were he not drunk and weary, that this was a bad idea. That he did not  _want_  this.  
  
_But I need it_ , Yamamoto snapped back, reaching with heavy arms to pull Xanxus on top of him, within reach of his lips,  _and it's damn time for me to get something_ I _need._  
  
And that was when Xanxus started talking.  
  
  
  
  
  
"He died," Xanxus purred, in that same thick tone that seemed to wrap around Yamamoto's head the best, "for  _you_."  
  
He timed the words to the movement of his fingers, pressing against the delicate walls and coaxing the muscles to loosen around him. Yamamoto whimpered beneath him, slick heat and heartbroken sounds as his fingers dug through his shirt and left their imprint on his back. Xanxus found he did not care. He was fairly certain that the boy wasn't listening to him anymore, not exactly. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, evenly split between the white hot pleasure siphoning through his body and the callous words slurring into his ears. There was something inside him that echoed what Xanxus said, he was sure of it, and he delighted in it. He talked about Squalo in a soft, dark whisper, at the same time his fingers worked on prying the brat open and prepared him to receive even more pleasure from this.  
  
Xanxus knew he could have skipped that part. That he could have simply fucked him raw and reinforce his words with pain and blood and shame. But that would  _break_  the boy, that would make him hate him in a way Xanxus didn't want him to. Hatred was powerful, it built up and fed a peculiar brand of strength that Xanxus was well familiar with. No, he did not want the boy to  _hate_  him. At least not openly. He wanted his fear instead. He wanted to make him enjoy each touch and sigh contently with each kiss. He wanted the pleasure to leave behind a strong mark, so when the shame came, it would be overwhelming. So he was careful, and he touched him like he'd never touched Squalo, like he would have never done so, if he'd ever been given the chance.  
  
Xanxus chose not to examine his reasons more thoroughly than he had, nor did he second guess the plan that had bloomed into existence as soon as he'd had the brat before him. It was risky, but it was a chance to earn compensation for what this boy - or his other self, but both were the same and Xanxus  _hated_  them equally - had done and would never do, once he was done with him. Life rarely went the way he wanted it to, but who was he to discard such a perfect chance when it walked into his hands so innocently? He fixed his eyes on the small medallion resting on the boy's chest, as he finally pulled his fingers away and held himself above him once more. It was all the reminder he needed, as to why he was doing this. Xanxus hissed, wanting to know who had given the brat a right to claim that necklace, and thrust into him with no mercy.  
  
Xanxus knew the medallion was the last memento Squalo kept of his mother after she'd died; he never took the damn thing off. It was proof, then, of what this boy  _could_  do, and what Xanxus would never allow him to do again.  
  
He rolled his hips into tight heat, over and over again, but the pleasure rushing in his veins didn't come from it. It came from the moans that became whimpers, and then morphed into sobs under the strain of his hips and the words he'd hissed up to that point, and whether Yamamoto had heard them or not, it didn't matter, because  _something_  inside him was raging. And if Xanxus kept his cool, if he carried through this, he'd turn that rage against its source.  
  
"You know it, too," he grunted, feeling the smaller body spasm under and around him, and reached a hand between them, to tip the scales to his favor, "you  _killed_  him."  
  
Yamamoto keened when he came, Xanxus' words bouncing between his ears. And then Xanxus  _laughed_  and let loose, thrusting hard enough to make the bed rattle, viciously racing for his own release. His was a feral snarl, as he closed his eyes and shuddered, feeling sweat slide down his brow. When he opened his eyes, he saw the boy lying unconscious, unresponsive, and so very  _vulnerable._  Xanxus knew he could kill him any way he saw fit, right there and then, but he chose not to. Instead, he tore the medallion from his neck, reclaiming a small part of what was  _his_ , and pulled away with a sneer that Yamamoto did not see, yet Xanxus was sure he'd dream about. And then he left, to take a shower and clean himself from any remnants of what had transpired between them, and to find a proper place where he could get well and truly drunk, as he had not done in years.  
  
The debt was not paid in full, but it was a start.  
  
His only regret was not to be there in the morning, when the boy awoke alone and remembered what he'd done.  
  
Xanxus wondered if he would cry, and the thought thrilled him beyond words.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
II.  
_  
All I know  
Is everything is not as it's sold  
but the more I grow the less I know  
And I have lived so many lives  
Though I'm not old  
And the more I see, the less I grow  
The fewer the seeds the more I sow  
  
Then I see you standing there  
Wanting more from me  
And all I can do is try  
Then I see you standing there  
Wanting more from me  
And all I can do is try  
  
I wish I hadn't seen all of the realness  
And all the real people are really not real at all  
The more I learn, the more I learn  
The more I cry, the more I cry  
As I say goodbye to the way of life  
I thought I had designed for me_  
  
~ " _Try_ ", by Nelly Furtado.  
  
  
  
  
  
Squalo groaned, wishing he could go back to sleep. Yamamoto was looking through his stuff, though, and even if Squalo didn't  _care_  what he found there, the paranoia was so deeply inbred into him that he could not ignore it. So he opened his eyes and surveyed the damage, but he was taken aback by what he saw.  
  
Yamamoto was looking at him oddly, as if he were looking at him for the first time.  
  
"What?" Squalo snapped irritably, sitting up slowly and fighting back a jaw-cracking yawn.  
  
"You kept them," Yamamoto replied softly, voice filled with a childish awe that made Squalo wonder how he could have ever thought the man would ever stop being the brat he'd met, years and years ago. "My letters, you  _kept_  them."  
  
Yamamoto pointed to the disorganized stack on the small desk Squalo kept in his bedroom, hands twitching as if he wanted to touch the papers there, and didn't dare for some reason. Squalo blinked, feeling as if he were missing a piece of the puzzle. He gave Yamamoto a look that said as much.  
  
"So?"  
  
"I just..." Yamamoto blushed, dropping his gaze to the floor to shuffle ruefully as he always did when he thought he'd done something wrong. "I thought you'd burn them. Or tear them. Or throw them away." There was a raw quality to Yamamoto's voice, an intensity that hadn't been there since the first time he'd boldly proclaimed his love for him. "I never thought you'd  _keep_  them."  
  
Yamamoto had been unstable, Squalo knew, ever since he'd decided to come back to the family. He'd yet to face  _his_  family, properly, but he'd done as he'd said, and he'd come back with Squalo and resumed his duties as the Rain Guardian. Things weren't  _right_  between them, though, not as they had been in the beginning, after the first time he'd allowed the scrawny brat into his bed. But he supposed it was natural, after all that had happened between them, and Squalo's still firm reluctance to fully reciprocate Yamamoto's feelings. He just  _couldn't_. He'd had Yamamoto back for two months, now, and he could grudgingly admit he  _liked_  having him back and doing what he should, but what Yamamoto wanted, what he hoped Squalo would say, it was just not possible. If Squalo dared say anything, then he'd be putting Yamamoto up there, where Xanxus was in the scale of things. And if he had to choose, he knew who he'd choose. It couldn't be any other way. His lover had no hope of ever competing with his Boss.  
  
"So burn them," Squalo shrugged, uncomfortable, "if that's what you want."  
  
Yamamoto studied him in a way Squalo had not known he could. It was a far cry from the young man he remembered -  _he wasn't a boy, not since the first time he crossed swords with me_  - much more mature and balanced, weighted down with experience and a particular brand of wisdom Squalo found utterly infuriating, sometimes. Then Yamamoto stood straight, clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.  
  
"I want you to come to Japan with me."  
  
There was more to it than what he'd said, of course. There was  _always_ something more to what he said, and Squalo had always been able to read between the lines, when it came to Yamamoto.  
  
He did not like what was implied in that request.  
  
Or, to be precise, he  _liked_  it, but he knew it'd never happen. Squalo's place was at Xanxus' right, always. He had a debt to pay to the man, and he'd never betray him just for the sake of personal gain. It didn't  _matter_  if Yamamoto's offer promised everything Squalo wanted, Squalo was not allowed to want anything other than what Xanxus wanted. He tolerated this, whatever this was, the sex and the fights and the strange relationship that hung precariously on Yamamoto's bold declaration, years ago. But Xanxus would not tolerate anything else, and Squalo would not leave him.  
  
"No," Squalo evened out his breathing, trying to keep the statement matter of fact.  
  
Yamamoto would insist, he knew, but he would not give in about this. He could  _not_.  
  
"Tsuna has a plan," Yamamoto went on, and the world-weary assassin slowly curled away to display the heartbreakingly earnest brat he was at heart, the one that looked at Squalo with wide eyes and no fear, and casually confessed his love. "He won't tell me about it, but he's certain we can stop the Millefiore." He gave Squalo a firm look. "He's got a  _plan_ , Squalo, we're going to win this war."  
  
Squalo looked at him for one long moment, then slowly shook his head. They would win the war, and things would be alright in the end, but until Xanxus freed Squalo from his vow, Squalo would remain where he was. Because that was how he did things, and Yamamoto  _knew_  that. He steeled himself and remained silent as his lover huffed and stormed out of the room, disappointment clear in his eyes. Squalo firmly told himself he didn't care. He had things to do, and a fucking  _war_  to fight and win for the sake of his Boss. And they  _would_  win, true, because they were Vongola and Vongola could not lose. Maybe after the war was over, Squalo told himself absently, getting out of bed and getting ready to face the day. Maybe once they won the war and things were less of a goddamn  _mess_ , maybe then he could consider that offer again.  
  
Maybe then Yamamoto would ask him again, and Squalo would find a way to say  _yes_.  
  
  
  
  
  


_“There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life.”_  
~ Alexandre Dumas

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally written in December 2009.]


End file.
